


Nourriture de l'amour

by aerye



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2013-09-13
Packaged: 2017-12-26 11:19:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/965330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aerye/pseuds/aerye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Reginagiraffee: PoI. John/Harold. Food, lips, watching.</p><p>This is post "Masquerade," if I have my episodes correct.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nourriture de l'amour

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive my Google translations!
> 
> For the Ten in Ten, although this is more like four in six. Still, just trying to push words out the door!

_"Does it have to be beer?"_

John smiled. "No, it doesn't have to be beer. It can be whatever you want."

"It's just that I know this restaurant. _Le Moulin_." It more a question than a statement.

John shrugged. "I—"

A disgruntled driver laid on the horn on the street behind them. John winced in annoyance and he could see Harold jump, see his eyes dart quickly from left to right. He moved a little closer; Bear's ears went up as he did the same.

"She's probably in Utah by now," he said casually, not mentioning any names.

"If she got on that train."

John nodded. "I told her what I would do if she came near us, Finch. I wasn't lying."

"I didn't think you were, Mr. Reese." Finch looked at his watch. "We'd have to hurry to make it to the restaurant in time. If we want to go. There's only one turn," he explained. "Six tables. Provencal cuisine. Dinner starts at nine."

"Aren't you afraid they're already booked for this evening?"

Harold opened his mouth and closed it, as if the thought hadn't occurred to him. It probably hadn't—Harold was a man used to getting what he wanted. He looked at John. "I could make a call." 

Which John took to mean that—if there was a problem before—there wouldn't be one after. There either would be a sudden, cancelled reservation, or a seventh table added. "I could eat," he said. "What about Bear?"

"I'm sure they would accommodate him."

John shrugged again. "Then make your call. I'll get a taxi."

John counted the number of tables when they walked in; there were seven. The maître-d' was all smiles as he led them to theirs but the chef stood to the side, frowning, hands on his hips. Harold broke off and greeted him in French, drawing him aside for a quiet conversation; by the end, the frown hadn't gone so much as flattened in a neutral expression, but as soon as they were seated a bottle of champagne was produced, along with the bread and "Adrien's compliments." Bear was given a cushion in the corner behind the table, a large crystal dish filled with water, and a plate of stewed meat. 

Harold explained it was a _prix fixe_ menu as the hors d’oeuvres arrived. Take it or leave it, the menu was Adrien's to decide each day. The other courses followed the first in turn: first a poached sole, then a rich cassoulet with duck, lamb, garlic sausage, and cannellini beans. The wine changed with each dish, and as the meal progressed John charted the rising flush in Harold's cheeks, the way he smiled more often and checked the door less frequently. Harold knew the chef, his family, the recipes, and the stories behind each dish. He talked easily about the food, about Paris, even going so far as to giggle during a tale of what he called "his misspent youth."

Then there was salad, and after that Adrien came out to sit with them for the cheese course, chatting happily with Harold in French, delighted when he realized John could speak it as well. As the other diners gradually finished and left, John settled back in his chair, feeling a warm sort of contentment settle over him, and he spoke less and watched more: the way Harold's hands moved freely in gestures that indicated Harold was not quite himself, and tipsy; the way he kept licking his lips as he drank his wine, even as it stained them; that same mouth, which frequently and suddenly, and without warning, would break into a large smile.

 _I must go,_ Adrien finally said with a sigh. _The market opens early._

 _Thank you, my friend,_ said Harold. _Your hospitality, as always, is unsurpassed._

 _Eh. Next time, call in advance. Six tables, you understand? We cook for six tables! Tonight—tonight there is a cassoulet. We made it stretch._ But Adrien smiled, gestured to one of the wait staff who brought over a basket. _Croissants, no? And bread. For your morning._ He nodded to John. "It has been my pleasure to meet Monsieur Harold's _amoureux_. He is a good man; it is good to see him happy."

A look of embarrassed horror crossed Harold's face. "No—no, Adrien, I'm afraid—"

"I'm afraid Harold is a bit—shy—about these things," John interjected smoothly.

"Ah, _réticents_ , yes—he has always been this way, _n'est pas_? Hopefully, you can show him more the _joie de vivre_. Good night, Harold. Good night, John." And Adrien returned to his kitchen.

There was a moment of silence before Harold levered himself unsteadily to his feet. "I guess we should be on our way."

Outside, the temperatures had dropped. John lifted his collar and stood at the curb hailing a taxi. Harold held Bear's leash as he sniffed at a couple of trees before making his choice. A taxi pulled over and John held the door open for man and dog, climbing in after them. He leaned over and gave his apartment address to the driver, along with an extra twenty for carrying Bear, then settled back on he duct taped seat next to Harold. Bear claimed the other window, his nose pressed against the glass.

"John, there was no reason to leave Adrien with the wrong impression," Harold said unhappily. "I would have corrected him in just a—"

"Was it the wrong impression?" John found it hard to meet Harold's eyes and looked out the other window at the passing scenery. 

Harold seemed to hesitate. "Do you know what _amoureux_ means?"

"I think so." He slipped into French again. _I think it means a man who, when he loses another man, realizes he will go to any lengths,_ any _, to get that man back. Who puts that one man above the thousands of other men. And women. And children. Who blackmails a machine designed to save the world if that machine won't help him get this one man back._ He turned to Harold. "Did I get that right?"

"Your verb conjugation is a little rusty," Harold said.

"Then try this." _It is a man who dreams of having you. Of touching you. Who touches himself, thinking of you._ He leaned forward and put his lips against Harold's ear. _Who comes with your name on his lips, every night, since the first night._

"John." There was longing in Harold's voice. And hesitation. And terror. He fidgeted nervously, and when he spoke again his voice was soft. "I never really thanked you for saving me."

John shook his head. "You saved me first. I told you I was returning the favor but I wasn't. I wasn't saving you, Harold. I was saving me. I meant it when I told your machine I wouldn't do this alone. I don't know what kind of man that makes me," he continued, after a pause during which Harold was silent. "Maybe it doesn't make me much of a man at all."

"You are—" Harold's voice was low, choked, and fierce. "You are one of the finest men I have ever known, John."

John reached out and placed one hand hesitantly over Harold's. It was gripped strongly. "Then perhaps Adrien was right?"

Harold looked down at their joined hands. "Perhaps." He was silent another moment before he spoke again. "I don't really know how to do this, John. "

John gave him a crooked grin. "Neither do I, Harold" he said. "Neither do I." He tightened his fingers. "But we'll figure it out."


End file.
